April 2007

April 11, 2007

I don't have anything to say. I've been spending my time watching the stats page and laughing at all the hits beginning with "search for naked Jessica Alba". Incidentally, I still can't get over the optimism of the average internet porn surfer. I mean, REALLY, do they actually think if they click on enough links they'll finally find that long-lost picture of Jessica Alba boinking Giselle? As always, the answer is apparently yes. Godspeed, Mr. Sticky Fingers.

Anyway, that can only keep me occupied for so long, and yet I just don't have the heart to share with you all anything remotely relating to my very deepest thoughts and feelings, excerpts from my diary, etc.. In fact, I may never write anything meaningful again since my delicate little psyche has been crushed by The Mean And Horrible Justin. I had to submit a scientific writing sample for a job I'm applying for, and they specifically asked for a research paper from my undergrad years. Yes, a scientific paper so old it was written pre-science, but whatever floats their boat. I had full confidence that my earnest theories regarding the flatness, not to mention turtle-backedness, of the earth would be so incredibly compelling as to send shivers of doubt up their 21st-century round-earthed spines.

So I dug around and actually managed to find one (I think I should get the job for that feat of magic alone), and then asked The MAHJ to take a look before I sent it off, since he's all sciencey and stuff. He dutifully printed it out and, after tearing it into one billion tiny little shreds, covering each individual shred in red frowny faces, and peeing on the pile of remnants, he handed it back. Have I mentioned that it has been a while since anyone actually edited a piece of my writing? It seems I have completely lost the knack of taking constructive criticism with anything resembling a shred of grace, so let's just say there were some tears and a bit of thrashing about on the floor.

And so, I have lost the will to write. Wouldn't that just serve The MAHJ right, to be all meaningful-writingless, and have to watch me mope around the house for five or six years? I think so, and whether you think so or not, that's the tack I'm taking. So, instead I will leave you with this bit of fabulous fun written by someone who is not me. More precisely, it's the rider for Iggy Pop, and it's chock full of stream-of-conciousness hilarity, much like my shitty little research paper.